


twisted rings and failed dreams

by shatteredhourglass



Series: Winterhawk Bingo [18]
Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Clint Barton is an asshole, Deaf Clint Barton, Denial, Enemies to Lovers, Explicit Language, Fake Marriage, Garbage Men, Green Card Marriage, Kidnapping, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, POV Alternating, Shame, bucky barnes is an asshole, they're such assholes i'm so sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-20
Updated: 2020-03-22
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:54:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23230519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shatteredhourglass/pseuds/shatteredhourglass
Summary: “You’re right,” Steve says. “The only people he talks to are you, me, Natasha, Bruce-”“-who’s offworld,” Tony finishes. “So that just leaves…”“I’m going to set fire to your bed,” Bucky snarls.“I’m going to piss in your dumb hipster shoes,” Clint snaps back, frowns as he realizes Steve and Tony are staring at them. He mentally backtracks through the conversation that’s been going on while he and Bucky were bickering, and-“Oh, fuck no,” he says. “Please don’t make me marry him. Steve."
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Series: Winterhawk Bingo [18]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1443160
Comments: 159
Kudos: 679
Collections: Winterhawk Bingo





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know how American Green Card Marriages work. This was originally a snippet on my Tumblr from months ago and it finally worked its way into being a real fic.

“So let me get this straight; they’re _deporting_ Barnes? He’s been here longer than anyone in the government!”

Clint finishes pouring his coffee - biggest mug he can find, and it’s beautiful - and heads for the couch, scratching at an itch that he’s been trying to reach for what feels like hours. He sits down and it feels more solid than normal. Lumpy, too. Oh well. The coffee is like tar and Clint tries to drink the whole thing in one go. 

“James Barnes was registered as dead in combat seventy years ago,” Steve says tiredly. “They’ve decided the Winter Soldier is different. It took them this long to decide he was a person and not just a weapon.”

Clint feels around behind his back, finds something cold and metal. That’ll work. He grabs it further down, adjusts it so the steel is rubbing up against the spot on his shoulder blades. Ah, that’s better. He sighs blissfully and then lets out a squawk as the scratching implement smacks him. 

“So what’re our options? Start up the Russian Avengers? Even Romanov wouldn’t go for that, she likes her peanut butter Oreos too much,” Tony says.

Clint slaps at the shoulder the metal is attached to. It smacks him back. He slaps it again and the lump he’s sitting on turfs him off of the couch altogether. He’s awake enough to land on his ass rather than his head, but that’s about as coordinated as he can be. 

Luckily his mug is empty, so he just watches it roll away from the carpet and then kicks the couch so hard that the body on it topples off as well. 

“I asked around and apparently the only option is a green card marriage. I’d do it, but apparently it’d be _unrealistic_ and they’d know it was just for the green card,” Steve answers tiredly.

“Well, it can’t be me,” Tony says. “This ring isn’t for show. What about Natasha?”

Clint’s only been awake for half an hour and that’s why he forgets to roll out of the way. An elbow ends up jabbing into his throat and there’s a knee in his stomach and he swears silently, smacks at scratchy cheeks and long hair, gets his fingers tangled in it. The body on top of him is warm and fucking _heavy_ and he’s being suffocated. 

“She already said no.”

“Well, that narrows it down to… well, no one. We need someone who can actually answer questions about him because they _know_ him, or it won’t work. It’s not like your Terminator over there is a social butterfly.”

Metal fingers slap his hands away and Clint flips them over easily, ends up on top instead with his knees braced on the floorboards on either side of a muscled torso. He uses the distraction to get his hands in long hair and _yank_ , bares his teeth silently and revels in the grimace of pain he gets.

A book from the coffee table hits him in the nose and he tugs harder.

“You’re right,” Steve says. “The only people he talks to are you, me, Natasha, Bruce-”

“-who’s offworld,” Tony finishes. “So that just leaves…”

“I’m going to set fire to your bed,” Bucky snarls. 

“I’m going to piss in your dumb hipster shoes,” Clint snaps back, frowns as he realizes Steve and Tony are staring at them. He mentally backtracks through the conversation that’s been going on while he and Bucky were bickering, and-

“Oh, fuck no,” he says. “Please don’t make me marry him. Steve, I love you like a weird older brother, but he ate my fucking poptarts.”

“Fuck no,” Bucky echoes. “I’ll go back to Russia, thanks.”

“Too late, we’re in charge and we say you’re getting married,” Tony says. "I'll text the press."

Underneath him, Bucky turns a pleading stare onto Steve. It’s an effective kind of puppy eyes, if you’re into that sort of thing. Clint finds it appalling - then again, he finds Bucky’s entire face appalling most of the time - but he turns his attention back on Steve in the hopes it’ll work on him, at least. Steve _looks_ sympathetic, but-

“I’m legally ordained,” Steve says to Tony. “Let’s get it over and done with.”

“Bucky,” Steve says. “Come on. It’s just in writing, that’s all. Nothing has to change.”

“I am _never_ forgiving you for this,” Bucky hisses at him. “You hear me, Rogers? You’re dead to me. Friendship my _ass,_ go choke on a dick.”

“You can’t get deported,” Steve says. “What am I going to do without you, huh?”

“That’s not what I’m upset about! Of all the fuckin’ people in the States, you want me to get married to _him?_ ”

“You aren’t exactly a fresh summer daisy yourself, Barnes,” Clint replies dryly, glances back at Tony and the stack of paperwork. “Hey, if we’re getting married, can you make him take my last name? And if it’s hyphenated I want Barton to be first. Barton-Barnes.”

Bucky lunges at him.

Clint’s expecting it though, and it’s a clumsy move at best. All he has to do is kick back his chair at the right angle and Bucky misses, swiping at the air uselessly as Clint balances on one leg of the chair, bare foot on the table to keep him steady. Steve pulls Bucky back by the collar of his shirt and Clint manages to squash down the urge to smirk or poke out his tongue.

It must show on his face, though, because Bucky squints and then he kicks out Clint’s chair from under him, too fast to register. There’s no way to dodge that one, unfortunately. Clint’s left with an aching tailbone and a faint desire to become a supervillain, if just for the purposes of vengeance. 

He sits up. “Can I file for domestic violence?”

“No,” Tony says as Steve also cuts in with, “don’t joke about things like that.”

“He _is_ violent and my ass is a testament to that,” Clint argues.

“I’ll show you violent,” Bucky grumbles, but he doesn’t try anything. It’s probably got something to do with the fact that Steve’s still got one hand on him, pushing him down into the chair.

Clint’s own keeper-slash-best-friend isn't here right now, so he’s free to be as much of a dick as he sees fit. It’s not like Tony’s going to stop him. Still, he’s putting up with this for Steve’s sake - he might think the guy’s got a stick up his ass, but Clint still _respects_ him - so when Tony points to a spot on his current piece of paper, Clint sighs and signs it.

Bucky seems less agreeable.

Steve takes his hand and makes him sign as well.

Clint thinks about that packet of Dorito dust he left on a shelf. “Am I done here?”

“Stay there. Marriage license is only thirty-five dollars, how about that,” Tony says thoughtfully, looks over at him. “You got your last divorce finalized, right?”

“Yeah,” Clint says.

He… doesn’t really want to be reminded of that. Even if this particular marriage is a sham, it’s another reminder that he just isn’t made for healthy relationships. God, how many divorces with well-known agents and Avengers are going to be on his public record? Hopefully it’s not some kind of a running theme.

Bucky isn’t aware of his inner lament.“Wait - has he done this _before_?”

“You’ve met Bobbi Morse,” Steve says at the same time Clint cuts in with, “unlike you, people like _me_ enough to at least attempt a relationship.”

“Sounds like it went real well, too,” Bucky comments.

Clint throws his sneaker at Bucky’s head.

“Here,” Tony says later, tossing a credit card at Clint. He catches it between two fingers. “Go find rings. _Nice_ rings. And at least pretend you like each other on the way. Consider it practice for the interview they’re undoubtedly going to make you take.”

“You’re forcing us into this and now you want us to go _shopping_ together as well?”

“I’m using this for burgers,” Clint says as he gets to his feet, waving the card. Tony doesn’t even look at him and Clint’s not surprised, so he tucks it into the waistband of his sweatpants and shambles in the direction of the elevator. He wonders if he can get away with buying a Ring Pop. Or like, a venomous snake coiled into a circle.

No. That’d be mean to the snake. It doesn’t deserve to have to deal with Bucky.

“If you don’t get a ring I’m picking them out instead,” Tony calls out as the elevator doors slide open.

Oh god.

Bucky steps into the elevator after him a moment later and Clint reluctantly presses the button for the lobby. The elevator doors shut with a cheerful dinging noise. It feels like the elevator is celebrating their misery.

Clint wants to get out. He considers just going through the hatch at the top and escaping, but Tony’s put security measures in that he doesn’t feel like testing right now. There were lasers involved, and Clint is _many_ things but laser-proof is not one of those things. Next to him, Bucky is silent.

The aura of menace is almost palpable.

“So,” Clint says. “You got a colour preference?”

“Shut up,” is the reply he gets, which isn’t very polite. Then again, Bucky’s not big on the whole _polite_ thing to begin with.

Clint thinks about what kind of burger he’s going to get. There’s a few places that are pretty decent near the fancy ring places, except Clint’s not a fan of gold and diamonds and rich snobs and judging from the fact that they’re both wearing clothes that’d be at home in a shelter, they wouldn’t get in anyway.

Maybe Bucky would. He’s got that whole ‘I shop at thrift stores because it’s trendy and I eat my weight in avocado toast’ look going on. Clint doesn’t know who taught him to be a hipster, but he smells like fruity shampoo and cologne and it’s almost insulting that a hundred year old man is more put-together than he is.

Bucky slams the emergency stop, putting a halt to Clint’s train of thought.

“ _Sirs_ ,” JARVIS says a moment later. “ _Is everything alright?_ ”

“Are you having a stroke, Barnes?”

“We’re fine, JARVIS. I’m laying down ground rules,” Bucky says flatly and then turns to Clint. It’s - not scary _exactly_ , but his heart picks up a little when Bucky pins Clint down with his eyes. That’s _intense_ , fucking hell. “Barton.”

“That’s me,” Clint says.

Bucky jabs a finger at him and Clint steps back automatically. Bucky follows. If it had been a knife instead of a finger he’d be in trouble right now. Bucky’s fingertip presses against his throat and he swallows, lifts his chin a little so it’s not pressing as roughly. He’s not worried about Bucky hurting him - not properly, although the adrenaline in his veins is automatic.

“Ground rules,” Bucky hisses at him. “You don’t tell anyone we’re married, you don’t brag, we’re not changing our fuckin’ names, and the _minute_ this is all over you’re signing the damn divorce papers.”

“You make it sound like I want to be married to you,” Clint says, and Bucky pokes him harder. “Shit! Fine, _fuck_ , whatever. I won’t tell people.”

Bucky doesn’t move for a few long seconds. Clint’s heartbeat feels like it’s in his ears. His traitorous brain supplies him with the thought of Bucky actually _holding_ him here, cold metal fingers wrapped around his throat with the threat of squeezing tight - the worst part is that there’s something _hot_ about it - and then Bucky backs off as far as he can go, squeezing into the furthest corner of the elevator.

“Let’s go, JARVIS,” Clint says once he realizes Bucky is done. “Lobby, please. And Bucky?”

Bucky fixes him with a stare.

“Nevermind. Let me guess,” Clint says. “Shut up?”

Bucky’s flat stare gets even more unamused, which Clint hadn’t thought was possible.

“We’re shopping separately,” is all he says, and Clint shrugs. He’s got Tony’s card, after all.

“I don’t see anything on the news about superheroes with rings,” Tony announces as he steps in the door, and ducks as a bottle flies at his head.

“You suck, Stark,” Clint says.

“What did you two do to my Tower?”

It’s just the one room, he’s being dramatic. Clint’s more focused on trying to patch himself up - Tony doesn’t keep frozen peas because he’s _fancy,_ so Clint’s got a slice of Eggo Fruit Pizza pressed to his face. It’s melting and he’s half-tempted to eat it even with the flecks of blood attached to it. He doesn’t because he’s a civilized person, but he’s tempted.

“Nothing,” Bucky grumbles from the other end of the couch.

“Bucky has no romance in his heart,” Clint says.

Tony looks them over. “You know what? This is outside of my pay grade. I’ll let the boss take over, see you two later.”

“The boss? What- oh.”

Clint puts his slice of pizza down as Natasha walks into the room. She’s dressed in her combat uniform, boots up to her knees and guns tucked into their holsters. Ready for a mission, then. She looks no-nonsense and deadly, and Clint would be a lot happier if she was being deadly somewhere else. He feels a little bit like a child that was caught doing something wrong.

Natasha takes one look at them and sighs.

It’s the kind of sigh you only get from knowing the two people in front of you intimately, and really wishing that you didn’t know them at _all_.

Clint rubs at the bruise he can feel blooming on his nose. “It’s his fault.”

“Fuck off,” Bucky says. “If this is anyone’s fault, it’s Steve’s.”

“And Tony’s,” Clint adds. “But it’s also your fault for not being an American citizen.”

“You’d both be a lot more attractive if you didn’t speak,” Natasha tells them as she drops into an armchair. She’s horrifyingly immaculate.

Clint wishes he could marry her instead. He wants _Bucky_ to marry her instead. Bucky and Natasha _fit_ together, in the way that two people just do when they’re former Russian assassins who’ve known each other for longer than they should. They’d be exactly the kind of power couple people dream of. It’d be all black leather and heated smirks and _god_ , the dangerously athletic kind of sex.

He’s kind of turned on thinking about it but then again, it _is_ Natasha. He’s not going down that path again.

“That’s nice quality,” Natasha says to Bucky. She reaches out for his hand and he moves to snatch it away but she’s faster, catching his wrist and turning it over curiously. “Tasteful, too.”

“It’s for a fake marriage,” Bucky says. “Nothing tasteful about it.”

Clint had ended up going to the markets in a secluded corner of the city for his burger and they’d had a bunch of interesting-looking jewelry going for sale next door. He’d honestly planned to get something terrible just for the laughs, but the delicate black and silver ring had caught his eye. It’s cheaper than he’d planned - it’s one of a kind, sure, but the stones are blown glass rather than diamonds and it’s not gold.

He’s weirdly proud of it.

Bucky had scowled at him.

“Better than your choice,” Clint says, waving his own left hand at them.

Natasha’s lips twitch at the sight of the messy piece of wire on Clint’s finger. Clint's pretty sure he stole it from a crow outside. “Last-minute choice?”

“It’s all he deserves,” Bucky says - like he _hadn’t_ forgot, and Clint knows he had because he’d walked past as Bucky came out of the cinema - and Clint flips him the bird. At least they’re not physically fighting again. Clint knows that Tony would never kick them out, but sometimes he seems close.

“I’m leaving for an important mission,” Natasha says. “Please don’t kill each other, or I will kill both of you instead.”

Despite the fact they're terrible at acting like a couple in public - they tried holding hands in public and Bucky had nearly squashed Clint's fingers, and they'd managed 'dates' somewhat well, although there's nothing romantic about the way Bucky drinks his soup. Clint's expecting the interview sooner than later, but even he's surprised at how quickly the woman shows up. Must be because Bucky's high-profile. He's getting some nasty messages from the Bucky Barnes fanclub online, not that he's mentioned it to anyone.

“Alright,” the severe-looking woman says. “My name is Mariam and I’ll be conducting your interview. It’s fairly straight-forward but it _is_ important, especially because Mister Barnes here is so close to deportation. We need to make sure this isn’t just for the green card.”

“Of course,” Steve says. “We understand completely.”

“Oh. I’m sorry,” she says. “This is meant to be a meeting with myself and the couple.”

“Right,” Steve says. He doesn’t move.

Clint tries not to laugh at him. At the whole situation, really. It’s fucking hilarious, as much as he really doesn’t want to be here. Who needs a helicopter parent when you have a helicopter Steve? It’s like he expects one of them to jump out the window the minute he stops hovering over them. If Clint’s honest, he’s too lazy to bother with that.

“Please leave the room, Captain America,” Mariam says, removing the hope that she doesn’t know who they are.

“Very well,” Steve says. “I’ll, uh. I’ll see you two in a minute? I’ll be just outside if you need me, or if-”

“Steve,” Bucky interrupts. “Get outta here.”

Steve does leave this time, and Clint kicks his feet up on Mariam’s desk. She gives him a funny look and he turns his attention to the window behind her, where a bird is trying to bust in. That, or it’s trying to procreate with its reflection.

He starts thumbing at the ring on his finger absently. It’s fun to fiddle with, if nothing else.

“A few simple questions to start,” Mariam says. “Mister Barton-”

“Clint. He’s Bucky.”

“ _James_ ,” Bucky corrects, with a smile that looks more like murderous intent.

“Clint, what is James’ favourite place to spend time?”

“Wherever I am, of course,” Clint replies just for the reaction it’ll garner. Bucky doesn’t say anything though, and Clint realizes he has relative immunity here. He reaches out to the side, catches Bucky’s hand in his own and links their fingers together. It's Bucky's right hand, thank goodness. Bucky struggles for a split second and then seems to remember what they’re doing.

His hand goes limp and Clint keeps his face neutral as Bucky taps out the morse code for _fucker_ against his fingers.

“And James,” Mariam says. “What is Clint’s middle name?”

“He has a middle name?” Clint stifles a snort and Bucky shoots him daggers with his eyes. “I mean, uh. What other questions have you got on there?”

Bucky doesn’t know a single thing about his life. Why would he? But the reactions are brilliantly funny. He’s not even _trying_ to be subtle, and it’s hilarious. Clint wants to watch Bucky fail over and over again for his own amusement. And he _would_ , but then he’d be upsetting everyone else as well and it’d bite him in the ass.

“Alright. Where was Clint born?”

“America?”

“The town, James? Or maybe even the state?”

Bucky gives her a slightly helpless look. It’d be mean to mess with him right now, and it’d only be asking for trouble. But then again…

“C’mon, we’re married. Give him something harder than that,” Clint says, flashing Mariam a grin. It’s exactly the right degree of charming to make her cheeks go pink. The aura of murderous intent coming from Bucky is so strong he can almost taste it, and Clint has to fight to keep the amusement off of his face.

“Okay then,” Mariam says dubiously. “What was the-”

There’s an ear-splitting shriek from outside and Clint tips to the side just as an extremely large snake flies past the window. A blur of red and gold shoots after it and a second later the backup alert is beeping from his hearing aids, echoed from Bucky’s pocket.

“That’s for us,” Clint says. “Let’s finish this up once we’ve saved the world, yeah?”

“I-” Mariam starts, but they’re already escaping out the door as quickly as possible. It’s a good thing Clint keeps a backup bow in the trunk of Tony’s car or he’d have to start throwing random office supplies at the bad guys, and that’s not very Hawkeye.

Steve’s suited up in the hallway when they get out there. The receptionist looks like she’s seen the face of god, and- did he change right _here_? Shit, Clint missed it. Damn it.

He forgets to let go of Bucky’s hand until Steve gives them a funny look. Even then, it takes him a few minutes to register why they’re getting raised eyebrows.

Bucky must realize it at the same time he does because they yank away in unison, Clint tucking his hands in his pockets and Bucky giving Steve the stink eye like it’s his fault. Clint’s above blaming Steve. (No he’s not. He just can’t be bothered getting mad about it. How does Bucky stay angry all the time without getting _tired_ of it?)

He forgets about the hand-holding pretty quick when the snake decides he’ll make a nice meal.

“We’ve got to do better at this,” Bucky says, stops pacing the bedroom and looks at him. “We can’t just fuck this up, Barton.”

“Sounds like a you problem,” Clint tells him. His shirt’s laying on the carpet and he’s sprawled backwards on the bed with his head hanging off the end, legs spread comfortably. Even upside down he doesn’t miss the dark, considering look in Bucky’s eyes, the way his gaze drags up to Clint’s bare chest.

“This is an _us_ problem,” Bucky insists. “Fucking hell, can’t you take anything seriously?”

“Sure I can. Just not you.”

Bucky sighs at that, the frustration in his voice transforming it into something more akin to a growl. It doesn’t _quite_ make Clint break out in goosebumps, but it’s a close thing. He’s always been a danger junkie and apparently his brain gets confused over the divide between violence and sex even with Bucky, who absolutely despises him.

“I need you to _do_ something,” Bucky says. Orders.

“Okay,” Clint says, because he’s a reasonable kind of guy. “Come here and I’ll do something for you.”

He watches as Bucky’s jeans-clad thighs get closer and closer to him, until he can nearly poke out his tongue and reach the rough denim in front of him. Bucky stops and Clint can’t look up at him properly because of the close proximity.

It’s _unfairly_ hot.

“What’re you going to do for me, sweetheart?” It comes out soft and a little scary, the twist in Clint’s stomach getting more noticeable as he sucks in a shaky breath.

“Depends,” Clint says, the anticipation buzzing in his stomach. “What’s in it for me?”

“How about this,” Bucky says and then his hands come into view, metal fingers trailing over the bulge in his jeans that Clint had somehow missed until this exact moment. Clint swallows hard and stares as he unzips slowly and pushes his right hand into his tight black briefs. Even watching from this close he’s not ready to see Bucky’s dick, but there it is.

Bucky pulls it out and it’s hard and thick, enough to make his jaw ache at the thought.

“Yeah,” Clint says. “Yeah, that’ll work. I want- c’mon.”

“You’re going to behave for me,” Bucky tells him, and Clint can see the soft shine of the wedding ring on his finger. “Yeah? Gonna be a good husband?”

“I-” he starts, and then-

Clint’s eyes snap open to a dark room.

A dark, _empty_ room, and he’s soaked in his own sweat and hard enough to pound nails. When he blinks he can still see the dream - can still see Bucky’s jaw slack with ecstasy - behind his eyelids, and he can almost feel the pressure of cold metal fingers in his hair. His hand’s halfway inside his boxers before he realizes he’s jerking off to _Bucky Barnes_ and manages to stop himself.

That’s when he decides he’s had enough sleep for the next six months.

“Rough night?”

Clint takes the entire coffee pot from Tony’s hands and returns back to his spot on the couch, cradling it gently. He probably looks like hell to everyone else in the room. He _feels_ like hell. His eyes won’t stay open and his throat feels like he’s been gargling concrete, but at least he got out of bed.

He wasn’t going to.

(Chances are it’s got something to do with fingering himself in the shower while thinking about metal fingers on his throat, but he’s trying not to think too hard about that.)

He’d fallen asleep again, but this time it’d been different.

_This_ dream had been in a crowded wedding ceremony, and Bucky had been looking at him like he was a dog and Clint was the most beautiful slice of pizza he’d ever seen. He’d been clasping Clint’s hands in his so gently that it had been startling, and then Steve had started talking about love and forever and all the things this sham marriage isn’t, and Clint had been about to say _what the fuck_ when dream-Bucky had told him he was beautiful.

Needless to say, it’d been so out of character that Clint had snapped awake immediately.

The coffeepot empties far too soon for his liking, and then there’s nothing for him to do except wait for the day to catch up. Clint rubs at the wire on his finger and stares out the window blankly.

Tony sprawls out next to him on the couch.

He’s silent for a whole ten minutes - some kind of record for him, surely - and then he speaks. “Did you ever want to get properly married?”

“’Properly’?”

“Don’t get defensive,” Tony says, side-eyes him. Clint hadn’t been planning on it - he probably _should_ be offended, but at the end of the day Tony’s not wrong about his track record. “I mean, like. You ever see yourself as the romantic type? Outdoor wedding, couple of kids, mortgage?”

Clint sighs and lifts the coffeepot over his head as Wanda walks past. Bless her, she takes it from his hands and after a few minutes there’s the familiar sound of coffee being made with it again. It takes him a few minutes to think about Tony’s question, too. He doesn’t think anyone’s ever asked him that before - their line of work, families aren’t a big priority.

Wanda passes him fresh coffee - a mug this time, and he smiles at her as she heads out of the room. Biological families only, maybe.

“I don’t know,” he says finally. “When I was a kid I used to daydream about the whole shebang. Still got the family farm, y’know? Figured I’d find a nice girl, take her out, we’d fall in love forever and get married. Adopt a couple of dogs. My brother used to make fun of me for it.”

“Cute,” Tony says.

“Yeah,” Clint agrees. “Then I figured I wouldn’t live long enough for a family. Assassins don’t have a long lifespan, even if they’re with SHIELD.”

“Understandable. And now?”

“Don’t think I’m relationship material anymore,” he says, a little too honest. “And even if I was. Hard to find someone as fucked up as you are, y’know?”

“Yeah, I don’t have a comforting speech for you here, Barton,” Tony comments.

Clint wasn’t _looking_ for a comforting speech when he said it - it was stating a fact, nothing else, but now he’s thinking about it, it _is_ kind of sad. Whatever happened to the little blond kid that stole his mother’s wedding photos and marveled over the flower-soaked scenery and overjoyed smiles. He _likes_ love, he’s just old and jaded.

“Did you drink all the fucking coffee _again_? Christ, Barton, how do you still have internal organs?”

“I don’t,” Clint says, turns sideways so he can watch Bucky crash around in the kitchen making breakfast.

The early morning sunlight catches off his left arm as he taps his fingertips on the counter, and Clint sets his own empty mug down on his knee. Bucky’s waiting for the coffee to brew again and his hair’s in a soft, messily-done updo, all of the usual frowns and creases missing from his face.

The sunlight catches off of the ring on his finger, too, and Clint’s chest feels a little too heavy.

“Selfish ass,” Bucky grumbles.

“Bitch,” Clint answers.

“Shit,” Clint mutters, touches his aids one-handed.

“ _Signal lost_ ,” an automated voice tells him and he lets out a sigh.

Great. Looks like he’s getting out of here the old-fashioned way. He shoves at the debris over his head and ends up with dust showering down on his face. Accidentally inhaling it causes a coughing fit from himself and a soft whine from between his knees, and the noise makes a pang of worry shoot through him.

He can’t see down here, so it’s an arduous task. There’s powder in his mouth and copper on his tongue and it’s a blessing that he was wearing his goggles so none of it gets in his eyes. Every few seconds he reaches down to touch matted fur and mottled scars to check, just in case. He’s got a headache and a black eye and he can only hope that someone else took care of the AIM guys that dropped the building on him in the first place.

“We’ve got this, buddy,” he says, gets a soft _woof_ in response. “Gonna get you out of here.”

He manages to push out into a bigger hole than the one he’d been stuck in, only to find a series of bigger rocks blocking his way.

“Aw, fuck,” he says, kicks at the rocks.

With his luck, of course that’s what causes them to collapse on top of him. One hits him directly in the forehead and he swears loudly, recoiling as a piece of concrete pins his boot to the ground.

Whatever gods are out there must decide to take mercy on him though, because a second later there’s a rattle from outside the rubble and a voice. “Hello? Is someone in there?”

“Yeah,” Clint yells back. “Can you get me out? I’m stuck.”

“Give me a second,” the voice says, and then there’s a scuffling noise. Another moment yields a bang and a scraping noise that makes him wince. The weight between his knees whines at him and he automatically reaches down to run his fingers against the head that butts against them.

The sunlight streaming through is almost painful when it comes, and he squints up at the humanoid shape as it lifts a rock like it weighs nothing and tosses it aside. The movement is repeated a few times until Clint’s vision is returning to normal, and a dark-haired teenager in a blue hoodie is jumping down to heave the rock off of his foot.

“Thanks,” he says.

“No problem,” she replies, looking up at his face. Then she frowns, looks down at his chest and walks around to look at something on his back. He doesn’t realize what she’s doing until he glances over his shoulder and sees her touching an arrow. “You’re Hawkeye.”

“Guess I am,” he comments.

She frowns at him for a second and then gets distracted by the dog between Clint’s knees deciding to say hello. “Hey there, buddy. Who’s this?”

“Don’t know,” Clint says as she kneels down to pet it. “Figure he probably belongs to someone who works here.”

“They’re not working here anymore,” she comments, tucks the dog under her arm. She’s not wrong. The dog doesn’t seem particularly worried about being carried like a sack of flour by an overly muscled teenager - Clint probably wouldn’t complain either, he’s tired - and she makes her way up to the cleared area and outside.

Clint sighs and follows her.

There’s a small crowd watching from the opposite street, and an upset-looking man breaks free when he spots the dog.

“Oh god, Bob,” he says, taking the dog from the girl. “Thank you so much.”

“No thanks needed,” she tells him, glances back at Clint and points with two fingers. “Your friends went that way.”

“Appreciate it,” Clint says. “I owe you one, uh…?”

“America Chavez,” and what a name that is. “I’ll collect on that favour some other time.”

He finds the group gathered in a loose circle, heads bowed. None of them react to the emergency service workers milling around except for Sam, who’s getting a nasty-looking cut on his face fixed up. They all look somber and Clint’s kind of concerned, especially because he can’t _see_ anything wrong.

“Did I miss the party?”

Everyone flinches away from him in unison.

“What,” Clint says. “Why do you all look like you’ve seen a ghost or something?”

“Clint,” Steve breathes. “Your comms were down.”

“Yeah, the signal went out when the building dropped on me. Stark, I’m gonna need that fixed - I don’t even use a phone anymore.

Steve takes a step towards him. “We thought you’d-”

It sounds serious and yet Clint doesn’t hear the next part of what Steve says, because Bucky is stalking towards him with murder written all over his face. To be fair murder is _always_ written on his face, but it’s usually with a much smaller font, and he isn’t usually holding a bloodstained knife.

Clint doesn’t back away and run because he never learned to face danger anyway other than head-on, so when Bucky grabs a handful of his shirt and starts dragging him away, he goes. Technically Bucky could probably drag him even if he didn’t start walking.

They end up in an alleyway that’s too narrow for the both of them and then Bucky shoves him up against a wall.

“What the fuck,” he grits out, “were you _doing_?”

“What?”

“You ran into a _collapsing building_.”

“There was a dog,” Clint says.

“There was a-” Bucky repeats and then smacks him a little harder against the bricks. It’s not rough enough to hurt, not even to sting, but it _is_ strange. “A fucking dog. Of course there was.”

“It would’ve died,” Clint argues.

“ _You_ could’ve died,” Bucky mutters. Is he disappointed?

“What, you got excited? Thought you’d gotten rid of me?”

That comments gets him smacked against the wall again.

“You’re a goddamn idiot,” Bucky hisses at him.

Clint realizes belatedly that they’re close enough to kiss, and that Bucky’s pressing him into the wall. Aw, hell. Clint doesn’t have anywhere to go except for the solid heat of Bucky’s body, pinned by thighs and arms and the way Bucky’s staring at him with a dark expression that’s somehow circled around into arousing as well as threatening.

He's getting closer, too, 

Bucky bites him.

“Ow! What the _fuck_ , Barnes?”

“Suck my dick, Barton,” Bucky says and then he’s gone, stalking away down the alleyway and out of sight. Clint’s still got a few fingers pressed to the sore spot where Bucky’s teeth had dug into his lip. His mouth’s tingling from the pain in a way that isn’t entirely unpleasant.

Honestly, if it had been an offer he might’ve said _yes_ , which is the worst part of all this.

Naps sure are great.

Clint’s not actually sleeping on the kitchen counter, but he’s drifting a little. America Chavez had found him on Twitter and now she’s asking for a setup with Kate. Or at least she’s hinting that’s what she wants - she won’t say it straight to him, and Clint’s having fun watching this unfold. He’s not sure he enjoys the late-night texting though.

He hopes that dog’s doing alright. It’d be nice to have a dog in the Tower, come to think of it. If he just picked up a dog from a shelter and put it in the main room it’d end up with the highest quality bed and toys in the world. Tony’s soft and he knows it.

Clint should definitely get a dog.

A hand slams down on the counter in front of him and he jumps.

It’s just Bucky, though.

The sudden movement feels a little dangerous, but everything makes him a little nervous when there’s no noise accompanying it. Bucky’s angry about _something_ , that much he can tell. Clint figures it’s one of his usual temper tantrums and goes back to what he’s doing, ignoring the increasingly wild hand movements.

His chair’s kicked out from under him a second later.

“The hell,” he says when he lift his head, which is aching a hell of a lot more than it was one minute ago. “What the fuck was that for?”

Clint can’t read Bucky’s lips with his hair in the way but he manages to make out _idiot_ easily enough. He doesn’t seem all that interested in kicking Clint for real now he’s got the attention, and he’s _still_ yelling about something. Clint gives up on trying to get him to talk properly and sticks his leg out the next time Bucky stalks past him.

He must be really worked up about whatever it is because he doesn’t even notice, and he goes down in an ungraceful heap.

Unfortunately Bucky falls in an ungraceful heap _on top_ of Clint, knocking the wind out of him. Jesus fucking Christ, he’s heavy. Must be the metal arm. Clint’s got bigger problems than that though, because Bucky’s thigh is slotted between his and it’s touching some pretty alarming stuff.

He must make a noise - _hopefully_ a wheeze, considering Bucky’s elbow is in his ribs, nothing as horrifying as a moan - and Bucky lifts up onto his elbows, looking annoyed. Unfortunately the way he moves also shifts his leg so it’s pressing even more insistently against Clint’s dick. There’s going to be a _problem_ if this continues, but Bucky seems more interested in glaring him down.

How do they always end up in these situations?

This is a terrible idea. Bucky shifts on top of him again.

“Do something about it or get off my dick, Barnes,” Clint says, mostly because he doesn’t want to get bitten again just because his brain thinks there’s something attractive about the guy who hates him.

Bucky just glares at him, and Clint’s pissed off and tired so instead of putting up with it, he knocks Bucky onto the floor. From there it’s easy to get to his feet and stumble off, although he does plan to leave a bucket of pink glitter over _someone’s_ bedroom door.

“Good?”

“Good,” Clint repeats affirmatively. There’s a soft beep in his ears and then JARVIS clearing his throat - why an artificial intelligence needs to make that noise, he doesn’t know, but it confirms that his hearing aids are connected again. Ah, sweet wireless internet and mobile connection.

“Cool,” Tony says. “You sure I can’t put lasers in them?”

“Please don’t.”

“You have no sense of adventure,” he’s told.

Clint doesn’t really mind being boring. It’s better than anything else right now, and he doesn’t really want lasers that close to his ears. They’ve suffered enough already. He adjusts the aids slightly and then slides off the cafe seat and heads for the counter. The place is busy enough that carrying his own drinks seems like a kindness, and the woman making the coffee gives him a thumbs up.

He glances outside and catches sight of dark hair and a stubbled frown.

What the fuck does Bucky want _now?_

He looks like he’s waiting for something. Clint’s still pissed over the random rage fit Bucky had gone through but underneath all the pissed off he’s curious about the upset look in Bucky’s eyes. What could’ve happened to cause that?

Bucky hasn’t noticed him either, and when Clint glances over at Tony he realizes Steve’s stolen his seat. Well, that explains why he’s here. It doesn’t explain why he’s smoking furiously and shifting on his expensive fancy boots like he wants to start pacing the area.

Ah, what the hell.

Clint goes out to investigate.

“Who shit in your hat?”

Clint can’t help snorting when Bucky glances up like he’s expecting a hat to suddenly appear on his head. Like he’d wear a hat when his hair looks like _that_ anyway. It’d be a modern tragedy. Bucky’s scowl grows and he stamps out the cigarette under his foot, glares at him. Clint’s unaffected.

“The fuck do you want?”

“I’m not really interested in being wheel number three,” he says, gestures at Steve and Tony.

Bucky’s lips curl up into a smirk at that - just for a split second, and then he’s back to frowning. Clint doesn’t want to examine the little cracks in his chest that the smirk causes too closely.

“Fuck off,” Bucky says shortly. “I’m not in the mood for your shit.”

Bucky lights another cigarette. It’s a good fucking thing he can’t get lung cancer, Jesus Christ. He doesn’t even rise to the bait, and that’s what tips Clint off to the fact that something’s off. “Is this about before? What the fuck were you even upset about? I thought it was just one of your usual tantrums.”

“Maybe if you paid attention you’d _know_ ,” Bucky snaps.

He pulls something out of his pocket and shoves it at Clint.

Clint’s momentarily distracted from his words by the magazine article - it’s a picture of Bucky shoving him up against that wall in the alleyway.

Wow. If Clint hadn’t been there, he would’ve thought they were about to fuck based on the photo. There’s only raw heat in Bucky’s face from this angle and Clint himself looks like he’s about to come in his pants. They’re seconds away from kissing and that’s exactly what it looks like they’re _doing_ , rather than fighting.

When Clint manages to look away from that photo he realizes there’s more - little candid shots of a smug Clint with his feet tucked under Bucky’s thighs as Bucky reads a newspaper, them leaning against a balcony while Clint points at something and Bucky smirks at him. Are they _always_ this touchy-feely? He’s never noticed it before.

It’s a little terrifying, in a weird way. His heart is beating far too quickly for his liking.

“I wanted to know what you were going to do about this and you decided _now_ was the perfect time to be a dick,” Bucky says, startling him out of his thoughts. “Not that you aren’t always a dick, but.”

“What do you want me to do? I don’t control the press.”

“You could’ve at least _listened_ to me,” Bucky insists.

“What? I couldn’t _hear_ you,” Clint says. “You think the hearing aids are for show, Barnes? Jesus fuck.”

“The-” Bucky says, stops. Frowns at him. “Hearing aids?”

Clint stops there as well, aware he’s just staring at Bucky blankly. Bucky’s staring back, looking a little confused with the lit cigarette dangling from his fingers. He doesn’t even _know_? Surely the bright purple aids were a dead giveaway. And Bucky was berating _him_ for not paying attention.

Bucky’s making a face like he’s genuinely upset now and for some reason that’s what flares the anger stirring in Clint’s stomach. Because seriously, what the fuck?

“I’m deaf, you dick,” he says. “Shouldn’t you _know_ that about your husband?”

It’s reasonable that he wouldn’t know - why would he? He doesn’t even know Clint’s middle name. The things Bucky knows about Clint are largely personality-based; he knows how Clint _doesn’t_ like his coffee so he makes it that way everyday, he knows which soap is Clint’s even when they’re in the gym showers, he knows _exactly_ which target in the range is Clint’s favourite. He just doesn’t have any idea that Clint’s been mostly deaf since they met.

A lot of it’s because Clint doesn’t disclose anything about himself to anyone besides Nat.

Either way it’s not actually a good reason to get angry at Bucky, but there’s a soft spot where his hearing’s concerned that lashes out on occasion and Bucky’s riled it up.

“I don’t care,” Bucky says quickly, making that face he does when he’s been caught off-balance and doesn’t know what else to do other than go on the offensive.

“Of course you don’t care,” Clint says, keeps his own expression flat. Bucky looks - _worried_ , almost - and that makes it worse. “Did Hydra suck out that ability for you?”

“Fuck you, Barton.”

“No,” Clint says, voice rising. “Fuck _you_.”

“Piss off,” Bucky snaps. “You think you’re so damn perfect, huh? You couldn’t even remember my name for the first six months I lived at the Tower!”

“Joke’s on you - I _did_ know your name, I was just fucking with you. And you deserve it, Barnes.”

“I hate you!”

“Good for you,” Clint says. “Good for _fucking_ you. Because guess what? I hate you too.”

“ _Goddamnit_ , Barton,” Bucky snarls at him. “Do you get off on being a dick? I hate this shit - I hate your stupid smug face and this whole fake dumb thing you won’t stop doing even when there’s no goddamn reason for it.”

Two can play at that game. “I hate that you think sarcastic is a personality, and I hate your stupid tight skinny jeans and that you steal all my vodka from the cupboards no matter how well I hide it, _and_ I hate your face and your dumb fucking hipster manbun!”

“I don’t even know what a fucking hipster _is_ ,” Bucky shouts back at him, throwing up his hands in the air. “Why did I have to be married to _you_ , of all the goddamn people in the world?”

“Good news,” Clint says, works the ring off his finger. “You don’t fucking have to be.”

It pings off Bucky’s forehead with a satisfying clink and Clint stalks off down the road. Heading for where, he doesn’t know.

Clint runs out of steam once he’s gotten lost in the city. He’s still walking through the streets, but the anger vanishes nearly as soon as it had appeared, leaving a heavy sense of dread stuck in his throat.

…what were they even arguing about?

The hearing aids, sure, but something niggling at his brain says it wasn’t really that. It’s a whole mess. Clint runs it back in his head as he sidesteps a child arguing with their mother, sorts through the jumble of feelings in his brain until he sits down on a park bench heavily.

He’s still holding onto that magazine article, and as he’s sitting there he notices a couple arguing a few meters away.

They’re standing under a tree and the woman seems particularly upset about something, waving her hands around. Clint can’t make out what they’re saying but he sees the telltale signs of someone about to start crying, and he can only see the back of the man she’s yelling at but his shoulders are hunched.

Should he intervene? He doesn’t _want_ to intervene.

It turns out that he doesn’t need to because a second later the girl tries to stalk off and the guy catches her wrist, turns her around and says something that makes her stop and stare at him. She says something back and then the guy cups her face gently in his hands, so soft it’s like she’s made of glass, and then he kisses her.

Clint feels like he’s accidentally walked into a movie.

Something about looking at them hurts a little and he looks down to realize he’s crumpling the magazine in his fist. He flattens it out again automatically, spreads it out against his leg. It reveals a photo he hadn’t looked at before - it looks like one of Tony’s fancy parties.

Clint knows where it’s from. They’d been arguing over whether Magneto had a DILF thing going on or not and Natasha had locked them out there because they’d been annoying her. They’re perched on the balcony railing with their feet dangling over nothing and Bucky’s making an obscene gesture with his hand in the photo, a hint of a grin edging onto his face.

Clint himself has his chin propped up by his hand in the photo, watching Bucky try to convince him that Magneto _is_ in fact, fuckable. (Clint had agreed, he just argues with Bucky on principle.) The thing that gets Clint _now_ though, looking at the photo, is the expression on his own face.

That’s a terrifyingly smitten look and there’s a hint of _something_ on Bucky’s face too, when he glances back at the other photos. Clint glances up at the couple in the park. She’s got a ring on her hand.

He feels bad again.

Ah.

That’d explain it.

Clint gets up from the park bench and starts walking again.

He should probably talk to Bucky.

No, he _needs_ to talk to Bucky.

Clint turns sharply down an alleyway, automatically calculating the quickest path back to the Tower. If he goes up the rickety fire escape by Matt’s apartment he can vault up to the rooftops, and then he’ll be able to avoid some of the traffic rush. It’s still a long walk, but it’ll be faster than the road is right now.

A woman looks at him strangely as he crosses the street.

Clint realizes he’s rubbing his left ring finger absently, thumb running over the spot where the ring was sitting. It feels strange not having it there, as much as he’d wanted to get rid of it. He doesn’t want to examine the cold spot in his chest that its absence creates.

He misses the ring.

Oh, jeez.

“This is a whole fucking mess,” he mutters to himself. When _isn’t_ his life a whole fucking mess, really? It’s just one more thing to add to the list. At least this one isn’t life-threatening - it’s just stupid, is what it is, and he should- “Ow.”

Clint slaps his hand to the spot on his neck that’s stinging, expecting a lost bee or maybe a fly. What he’s not expecting is the dart that he pulls out, bright orange at the tip and full of something that he can’t identify in the middle of an empty street.

He can guess though, especially with the way his vision blurs abruptly and his knees stop holding him up. He drops the dart as booted feet rush up to him, barely has the motor function to kick whoever it is in the crotch before he tries to crawl away, the rough concrete scraping his palms.

He’s fucked.

“JARVIS,” he says, doesn’t know if it’s coherent, doesn’t even know if his Stark-issued hearing aids will register the cry for help. “Call for- need Bucky.”

He’d meant to say _backup_ , he thinks hazily as someone grabs the back of his shirt and starts dragging him backwards.


	2. Chapter 2

Bucky hates Clint Barton.

It’d be stupid to feel anything else for the guy. He’s arrogant enough to be dangerous for everyone else, he always looks like he’s crawled out of a sewer, he’s a pain in the ass besides. Archery is a dead art. He always wears those _damn_ sleeveless shirts that show off every inch of muscle in his arms and it makes Bucky’s stomach do flips.

Bucky hates him.

Anything else wouldn’t make sense.

He's got to admit, though, that things don't make sense if he hates Clint either. It doesn’t make sense that he feels bad about their fight. They’re _always_ fighting. It’s part of who they are as people - they’re assholes masquerading as heroes, and close proximity to each other drags out all the ugly, defensive parts and sets them free. It doesn’t make sense, but he still feels bad.

Maybe it’s a balance thing. Sure they’re always bickering, but it’s never over anything important. They’re never intentionally _cruel_.

Bucky _was_ cruel, though.

What the fuck’s wrong with him?

He steps into the Tower’s elevator and immediately the memories of his last adventure with Clint in here flood his mind. Pushing him up against the wall, his finger on the warm, exposed skin of Clint's throat. He's terrible at shaving and Bucky had brushed over a spot he'd missed absently, momentarily distracted by it. He'd been tempted to do - something, in that moment, and it had knocked him off-kilter and flooded with anxiety. 

He'd pretended he'd been watching a movie when Clint had walked past. In reality, he'd just stared at himself in the reflection of the glass for a few hours.

Bucky steps out the elevator and heads for the stairs instead.

The receptionist gives him a funny look and he ignores her profusely, shoving everything out of his head except for the thought of going up to his room to binge a few episodes of the Bachelor. Maybe watching other people’s problems will make him forget his own. He enjoys the drama of it all. Clint says it's because he's buying into gay stereotypes.

Bucky had told him that Clint can't judge for stereotypes when he's the slutty bisexual of the group.

It had shut him up for all of two seconds, too.

Bucky sits down on the couch.

He stands up.

He sits down.

He stands up again.

He starts pacing.

Bucky’s _trying_ to push it aside. It’d be a lot easier to get on with what he’s doing if he wasn’t replaying that there-and-gone-again flicker of hurt in Clint’s eyes. They’ve been annoying each other for long enough that Bucky knows Clint is a decent actor, and normally his face stays impassive the entire time they fight, maybe a lazy smirk every now and then. There’s never been anything like _that_.

Before today he would’ve said that making Clint upset was an _achievement_ , something to lord over Clint as a sign he’s won this round.

Instead he just feels like shit about it.

Maybe he’s just hungry. Steve gets a little weird and emotional when he’s hungry, it’s probably just that. Bucky shifts his feet so he’s headed towards the kitchen instead of the circles around the lounge he’s been doing, pulls the fridge door open.

There’s only a bottle of vodka in there and nothing else.

_Clint’s_ vodka. He’d stolen it just for the indignant look, and the joy of watching Clint stay dismally sober as Thor, Valkyrie and the supersoldiers had enjoyed their Asgardian liquor. It had been a good night - Bucky hadn’t gotten drunk, but he’d been warm and tipsy enough to break into Clint’s bedroom, call him a dick and then order him to bring his _actual_ dick over here.

Clint had laughed at him, said _wrong bedroom, Buck, I'm not Sam,_ and Bucky wouldn't technically say no to fucking Sam Wilson but for some reason he'd been disappointed when Clint had batted off his feeble attempts at a slap fight and tripped him into bed. Clint had sat on him until he'd passed out.

Bucky hadn't brought up the accidental come-on when he'd woken up in the morning.

Part of him had wanted to. Bucky’s seen him naked before. Accidentally. It’d be good, he’s pretty sure.

Then again, it always is with Clint, isn’t it? Despite the constant way they’re at each other’s throats. It's always good, having him around despite everything else.

Bucky sighs and lets his forehead smack into the freezer compartment. It doesn’t fix the crawling sense of guilt inside him, so he does it again.

Then his forehead starts hurting, so he has to stop.

Fucking Clint. This is all his fault.

Bucky hates him.

“ _Sergeant Barnes_ ,” JARVIS’ voice interrupts him from his lament. “ _Clint Barton is calling you._ ”

He's surprised Clint wants to speak to him at all, let alone intentionally calling him. “What?”

“ _Unfortunately I believe he was knocked unconscious before I could connect the call.”_

Bucky’s blood runs cold. “Do you know who took him?”

“ _I can only operate the calling services that Sir installed on his hearing devices,”_ JARVIS tells him. _“There are no visuals available. Would you like to hear the audio?”_

He doesn’t. “Put it on.”

Bucky’s already making his way to the closet where he keeps all his combat gear. JARVIS’ voice follows him down the hallway and into the room where it’s stored, waits for him to pull out the old Winter Soldier outfit before he starts transmitting again. Bucky hears it through a haze as he tugs on the vest and fixes the straps one-handed.

_“Dart put him out for a while, huh?”_

_“He’s only human, Jan. That’s why we snagged this one and not Captain America.”_

_"I thought we grabbed him because he's with the Soldier."_

_"That too."_

Oh god. It's _his_ fault Clint's been kidnapped. That's just what he needs to top off one of the worst days of his life. Now the guilt crushing him into the floor is starting to push him down into the sewer system. Soon he's going to have enough guilt to get to the center of the earth and no one will ever see him again, and he won't be able to be responsible for _any_ of this shit.

_“Hm. He’s kind of cute when he’s not shooting at us, huh?”_

_“I guess. Why, you want to play with him before we get into the torture?"_

Bucky puts down the revolver in his hand and picks up an assault rifle instead. It goes nicely with the twelve knives tucked into various parts of his costume, along with the two Kahr handguns pressed into the holsters on his thighs and the increasingly strong sense of violence bubbling under his skin. His teeth are gritted so hard that they’re aching, and he looks down at his hands.

The ring looks back at him, soft blues blending and changing in the light.

It’s so delicate in comparison with everything else.

“Fucking hell,” Bucky says.

“ _...Bucky?”_

_“Oh hey, he’s awake. You want the first go?”_

“Clint,” Bucky says. “Shit, Clint - where are you? I’m coming to get you, I just need-”

_“Sorry, Bucky,”_ Clint’s voice slurs, catching on the words. They’ve obviously drugged him just based on the way he’s struggling to get a sentence out, and Bucky’s going to make every single one of them regret they were born. “ _’m an asshole.”_

“Yeah, you fucking are,” Bucky answers automatically, steers himself back on topic instead of getting caught up in the banter. “I need you to tell me where they took you.”

_“Is he dreaming?”_

_“Might be concussed. Hey, what are those things on his ears? Communication devices?”_

_“Shit!”_

_“_ Clint,” Bucky says desperately, but there’s a crackle and then silence. “JARVIS?”

“ _I’m afraid the connection has been lost,”_ JARVIS says, and the machine actually _sounds_ sorry about it. It's bad. Bucky checks the ammo on his gun and swivels around to exit the room. He’s replaying the anonymous people’s voices in his head in the hopes that it’ll keep him from thinking about what they could do to Clint before he gets there.

He stands motionlessly in the doorway for a good ten minutes before he realizes he doesn’t know where he’s going. 

Maybe he should just ask around. People see things.

“ _Sergeant Barnes?_ ”

“Yeah?”

“ _There was tracking on the device before it was terminated._ _I can show you where the last location was before I lost the signal._ ”

Phew.

“Alright. Send it to my phone.”

“ _Yes, sir._ ”

Clint better not die, because who the hell is Bucky gonna throw this ring at?

Bucky figures out where Clint is before he even turns down the street. He doesn’t check the location on his phone because - well, the clouds of smoke and ash are pretty easy to spot from a few blocks away, although it doesn’t look like emergency services have been called yet.

He pushes past the crowds of people trying to vacate the area, ignores it when they complain. He’s got bigger problems than a few disgruntled civilians. Smoke means something went wrong - for Clint or for the guys who took him, that’s the question. It didn’t sound like they were planning on setting the whole building on fire, but who knows?

Clint’s supposed to be better than this. Than getting himself _kidnapped_ , because what a fucking cliche this is. Barton’s not some kind of damsel in distress for Bucky to rescue. Bucky’s going to rescue him anyway, but fucking hell. He’s giving Clint an earful when they get out of here. Fuck apologies, what kind of an idiot gets kidnapped within twenty minutes of wandering a densely-populated city?

He turns onto the street and spots the building.

A man in black with a bleeding nose tries to run past him, clearly doesn't recognize him, and Bucky grabs him by the throat with ease, smacks him down onto the sidewalk. The Hydra insignia on his shirt confirms Bucky's suspicions and when the man struggles to get away from him, Bucky punches him in the nose. There's a _crunch_ that satisfies something panicked and scared in him, pushes away the fear when he pulls a knife out and stabs it straight through the guy's hand. 

"Please don't," the man sobs. 

"Barton," Bucky snarls. "Where is he?"

He starts babbling immediately. A new recruit, maybe. "We tied him up in the basement and he kept singing Britney Spears songs at us so Jan hit him, except then he escaped and I tried to shoot him but then he threw a belt at me and it hit me in the face and then _his pants fell off_ and I was so shocked he knocked me out and I heard him fighting upstairs but it was so _weird_ , I didn't sign up for this shit, so I crawled out the secret exit and started running and then you grabbed me and I don't want to die, please, I didn't do anything."

"You didn't do anything," Bucky repeats flatly.

"...it was all Jan's idea," the man says, and Bucky punches him again. 

Then he punches him a third time and gets to his feet.

Right, Clint can handle himself. It's hard to remember that sometimes with how he acts, which is one of Bucky's pet peeves. He pretends he isn't competent as all hell and he is, to bounce back from being drugged and taking over a Hydra kidnapping within a good half hour. It's impressive and Bucky hates it, he's going to punch Clint as well when he sees him for making him worry, goddamnit.

“Fucking idiot,” he mutters, and then something inside the building explodes.

The heat and flames make him shield his eyes automatically, even meters away from the blast. The windows shatter with an ear-splitting crash and as Bucky looks again something collapses in the middle of the building. The smoke is streaming out of the ruins now, and there’s no way anyone inside of it could possibly be alive.

Which means-

No. No, no, no.

“JARVIS,” he says into his earpiece, and his own voice sounds distant. “Can you- are there any signs of life?”

There’s a pause that’s _far_ too long for his liking, and then a reply. “ _There are no heartbeats within the building you are looking at.”_

“Right,” Bucky says.

The world feels very cold, all of a sudden. It’s the middle of summer and yet that’s doing nothing to fix the chill that’s settled deep in his bones, spiraling right down to his toes. He’s too late. He broke about fifteen different laws trying to get here as fast as he can and he was _still_ too late.

He didn’t even get the chance to apologize.

“ _I’m sorry, Sergeant Barnes. Would you like me to call Captain Rogers and Agent Romanov?_ ”

Bucky doesn’t answer. He doesn’t _know_. How is he supposed to do anything if this is how it ends?

He’s still staring at the building as it collapses, watching the flames flicker from inside the broken windows. The crash is deafening, and there's ash landing on his boots. There’s a body on the second floor with one hand hanging loose - too pale for Clint, he’s tanned every inch of skin apart from his ass, from being out in the sun all the time. It’s not a comforting thought.

He can't move.

As he’s staring, he nearly misses the leg sticking out of dumpster nearby. What’s another body in this mayhem, after all?

Except as the foot twitches, Bucky realizes that those stupid purple sneakers could only belong to one person.

“Idiot,” he breathes, but his heart starts beating again.

Dragging Clint out of the dumpster is harder than he expects.

It’s not that Clint’s heavy - he might be heavy for a normal person, perhaps, but Bucky’s _not_ a normal person and it’s no different from picking up a river pebble or a box. The problem lies in that Clint’s legs are absurdly long and while they’re attractive in other contexts, it’s hard when Bucky’s trying to pick him up without any more injury involved. Honestly, what did his parents _feed_ him?

_Injury_ probably isn’t the word for it.

Bucky gets him out of the dumpster and onto the sidewalk and then he just stops on his knees. Clint’s fucked up. That’s all he can call it, because he can’t tell where all the blood came from and which of it is Clint’s. He _can_ tell that a few of Clint’s fingers are broken.

“How’d you end up in a fucking dumpster, huh,” he mutters, tries to find a pulse. "Not that you don't _belong_ there, but-"

Quicker than he can blink there’s a hand grabbing his, bending it at an uncomfortable angle. It’d be painful if it was his flesh hand, but as it is Bucky just blinks down at the grip Clint’s got on him until it eases a second later.

“Bucky,” Clint croaks.

“Yeah,” he says. “I’m here, you big idiot. Did you blow up a whole fucking building because you couldn’t wait for me?”

Clint coughs rather than answering, and his hand slips away from Bucky’s wrist as he flops back onto the concrete.

Bucky leans in close, the turmoil in his chest resolving into something like desperation and he doesn’t even realize what he’s doing until Clint’s blood-slick hand smacks into his face. It’s weak and ineffective, but it makes him freeze for a second, his brain catching up with his body. Clint’s hand smacks him again and Bucky can smell blood - Clint’s blood - on his skin, catches the hand in his own before he can be smacked again.

“Gonna bite me again,” Clint mumbles.

“What?” _Oh_. Yeah. “No, I’m not gonna bite you. I was just…” _so fucking relieved you’re still alive_ , he finishes in the safety of his own head, wonders when Clint Barton’s well-being became so important to his own.

“...can’t walk.”

“Right,” Bucky says. His heart’s beating a million miles an hour from either panic or stress or something he’s not sure he wants to examine too closely. “Let me carry you?”

Clint doesn’t react to the question. He’s still conscious though, still _breathing_ , and Bucky realizes why when he sees an absence of the clunky purple hearing aids - _not_ a comms device, like he’d thought for the last year - Clint’s been wearing. _Shit_. Did he do all of this without even being able to _hear_?

Bucky lets out a huff. Fucking Barton. He’d be one of the most lethal Avengers if he wasn’t so convinced he needs to play the idiot. Clint doesn’t look lucid enough to be able to watch his hands for sign language, so Bucky makes the executive decision and scoops him off the dirt and blood-smeared concrete.

He feels oddly frail in Bucky’s arms (despite being a fucking giant) and Bucky’s breath catches oddly in his throat when Clint tucks his face into the non-metal shoulder.

“Let’s find you a medical professional,” he says. “Please, _please_ stop letting me think you’ve died.”

“All done,” the nurse - Claire? - says. “Few broken fingers, couple of nasty cuts, twisted ankle, couple of bullets, nothing he hasn’t come back from before. He’ll be fine. Most of the blood wasn’t his and I don’t want to know where it came from. I didn't call the police because I don't want to deal with them.”

Bucky lets out a sigh that’s far too relieved for other people to have heard it.

Claire gets it, though. She was waiting when they’d got here, already accustomed to the kind of shenanigans that Clint gets up to. Apparently she’s got a few vigilante idiots of her own. She seems more jaded than traumatized though, which is more than Bucky can say for himself. Whenever one of Bucky’s idiots gets hurt, it drives him half-mad with worry. He’d thought those days were over when Steve got the serum.

“Can I see him?”

“Family only,” Claire says, looks a little apologetic.

By that she means blood relatives, presumably - which is bullshit because Bucky knows all of Clint’s blood relatives are dead and gone apart from his brother, and when Barney is mentioned Clint’s face goes all pained. Bucky feels a scowl tug at his face, looks down at where his hands are tucked into his lap.

His eyes catch on the ring.

Oh yeah. “We’re, uh. I’m his husband.”

Claire gives him a thoughtful look.

Bucky doesn’t know what his face is doing, but she sighs and gestures for him to follow anyway. She leaves the second he steps into Clint’s hospital room. It’s like she’s afraid of seeing something, and as Bucky settles into a chair and edges as close to the bed as he can, he thinks it might be his own impending meltdown.

The bandages aren’t any more comforting than the blood had been, but something settles in his chest at the sight of Clint’s face anyway. He takes Clint’s hand.

Even in sleep, Clint’s bandaged fingers - the unbroken ones - curl around his weakly. Bucky tries very hard not to crush them with the flood of feelings that slam into him at the movement. He’s still got Clint’s dried blood stuck to his clothes and skin, and it feels _wrong_ all the way down to his bones.

Clint shouldn’t be passed out in a hospital bed. He should be annoying Bucky, causing problems, being a general menace to society but especially to Bucky. Bucky _wants_ him to be annoying.

All of these feelings are starting to make sense, and he _really_ doesn’t want them to. Because that would mean he’s-

“-in love with Clint fucking Barton,” Bucky mutters incredulously. “Hell is real.”

“You can’t just blame a higher power every time something happens that you don’t like,” Natasha says out of nowhere, and he jumps.

“Who the fuck let you in here?”

“No one,” she answers, casts her eyes over Clint’s motionless form. Bucky’s not exactly _great_ at reading people but he can see the worry reflected in her eyes because it’s the same expression he’d seen in the mirror earlier. She’s wearing a heavy coat that has no place in this weather and Bucky wonders where she’s been.

Wherever she was, it wasn’t important enough to leave Clint behind, apparently.

Bucky gets that, oddly enough.

“You’re still wearing the ring,” Natasha says. “I didn’t think you’d be continuing your charade. Commendable. Or stupid, maybe.”

“Thanks,” Bucky replies, doesn’t think too hard about it. “Think I’ve gotta buy Clint another one. Maybe as an apology.”

“I’m pretty sure you could get him a river pebble and he’d be fine with it,” she says. Bucky snorts, but inwardly he's wondering what that means. “That doesn’t mean you get out of buying him something nice. Charge it to Tony’s account.”

“Oh hey,” Clint says wearily, startling Bucky out of his daze. “I’m alive.”

He fumbles for the slim black hearing aids on the counter - those weren’t there before, _goddamn_ Natasha and her slippery fingers - and fits them in his ears carefully, fumbling a little because of the splints.

Then he sags back against the pillows and looks at Bucky.

“I think I’m done fighting with you for a while,” Clint tells him. “Not because I’m hurt.”

Bucky stares back at him for a long moment. Too long, perhaps, because Clint’s lips curve into an awkward little smile like he’s not quite sure how to react to the attention. The problem is that Bucky’s always known Clint’s the kind of beautiful that sneaks up on you, and now he’s actually looking he realizes that all the little imperfections are the parts he _likes_.

“Buck?”

“What the _fuck_ were you thinking,” Bucky says, because every time he has an emotion he can’t deal with it comes out angry. “You’re a goddamn Avenger, how did some thugs off the street manage to grab you?”

“...I was distracted.”

“Distracted,” he repeats incredulously. “You got _distracted_ and now you’re in the goddamn hospital and the firefighters are trying to put out a whole block. ”

“Shit happens,” Clint reasons. He looks pale and tired, and Bucky’s very aware that shouting at someone who’s just come out of surgery is a dick move but he can’t stop himself. “I got out of it.”

“That’s not the _point_ ,” Bucky snaps at him. “I had to listen to them talk about you, Clint! I heard what they were planning to do to you while you were unconscious. What if you hadn’t gotten out of there? What would I have done if you’d- if I-”

“Hey,” Clint says, softer than he deserves. “C’mere.”

“I’m already here,” Bucky mutters, but Clint catches a strap on his vest and tugs him close until he gives up and sits on the hospital bed, rearranged by its occupant until he’s sitting with his back to the headboard. Then Clint picks up his hand again, turns the steel over carefully and runs his unharmed thumb over the blue glass. “The fuck are we doing?”

“Dunno,” Clint says. “Thinking ahead isn’t really my specialty.”

"You're damn right it isn't," Bucky says.

They’d probably be better at all of this if they _weren’t_ impulsive people. Shit, Clint had just said he didn’t want to fight anymore and here they are again. He’s just _worried_.

“You should rest,” Bucky tells him. “I- fuck. I’m sorry. You scared the shit out of me.”

“Impossible,” Clint says. “You’re too full of shit for that, Barnes.”

The laugh that escapes from Bucky’s lips is a little hysterical-sounding, but Clint doesn’t seem worried about that. Instead he leans up against Bucky like it’s the only thing holding him up, cheek resting against the metal. It can’t possibly be comfortable, but that’s where he stays.

“I’m sorry too,” Clint mumbles. “This is a mess.”

“Damn fucking right it is,” Bucky says. “Now go back to sleep. Less you look like a corpse, the higher chances we can get the hell outta here.”

“Fair enough,” and Clint sounds like he’s already drifting off.

The door slams open.

“The interviewer’s here,” Tony announces. “She wants to do it now.”

“No,” Bucky says flatly.

“You don’t have a choice,” Tony tells him. “It’s now or the next time we see good old Buckaroo is in the motherland, freezing his shapely ass off.”

Clint pushes off his shoulder, tries to sit up. Bucky reacts on impulse and pulls him back so they’re pressed against each other. He doesn’t really think about what he’s done until Tony’s eyebrows fly up into his hairline. Shit. Tony opens his mouth but Bucky’s not interested in what he’s got to say, and whatever expression is on his face must scare Tony back into silence.

_Good_ , he thinks, quiet and vicious. 

“Send her in,” Clint says tiredly. “Before I pass out.”

“Clint, you-”

“I’ve got this,” he answers, pats Bucky’s hand and the ring sitting on it. “Trust me. Give me ten minutes, max.”

Turns out that while Bucky was busy getting distracted by Clint’s personality and his looks, Clint himself was paying attention to _everything_ about Bucky. Fucking spies. Bucky shows Mariam to the door because he’s a gentleman, and she’s smiling at him for some bewilderingly unknown reason. Her clipboard’s been tucked away and she looks more like a person than an unsmiling robot now.

“Will we be doing this again?”

“I don’t think so,” Mariam says. She glances past him at the hospital bed briefly and her smile grows. “Your husband's pretty detailed. I wouldn’t expect any trouble from my coworkers, either.”

“Good,” Bucky answers bluntly. He’s tired of all this.

“You’re lucky to have him,” she tells him. “Not many men pay that much attention to the person they’re married to. I know my wife doesn’t.”

“Uh,” Bucky says. _He_ doesn’t pay that much attention, and even though it hadn’t bothered him in the slightest before this moment he sure is feeling like an asshole now.

“I’ll have some ‘get well soon’ flowers sent to the hospital,” Mariam says.

“He likes sunflowers,” Bucky tells her and then blinks, a little surprised at himself. Where had _that_ come from? Either way it gets a smile from Mariam. She leaves a second later with a clack of heels and Bucky’s left to wonder what the hell just happened.

“I think I’m done fighting with you too,” he says to Clint when he walks back in.

He gets a snore in reply.

Bucky sighs, pushes his hair back from his face. Of _course_ the fucker’s asleep when he’s trying to bare his soul. It’s a very Barton thing to do. He shouldn’t be surprised by these shenanigans now.

It’s probably a good thing because now Bucky can let himself consciously _look_ , maybe for the first time. Thing is, as his eyes run over the curve of Clint’s nose and his softly parted lips, Bucky realizes he’s got it all memorized anyway. He could probably map out most of the freckles on Clint’s body without looking.

Oh, jeez.

Clint’s curled into a space small enough that there’s a generous amount of room next to him on the bed. Considering Bucky’s seen him nap like an oversized starfish before, it has to be on purpose.

Bucky kicks his shoes off and gives in.

“How did you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Get her to go away,” Bucky says. “Why do you know the answer to all of her questions? You hate my guts.”

They’re still laying on the bed, Bucky’s nose pressed to the back of Clint’s neck. When Clint exhales a sigh he can feel the vibrations, and it’s oddly comforting. They’d tried eye contact earlier and it’d been too nerve-wracking, so they’re trying this instead. Neither of them are being dicks yet either, which might be a record.

“I mean,” Clint answers, trails off.

“You’re a spy,” Bucky says. “That it?”

“It’s part of it,” Clint agrees. “Just part of it.”

That's... a little confusing, but part of him is pleased that Clint just pays attention beyond paranoia. Bucky doesn’t know if he’s supposed to ask. He doesn’t have to deliberate it for too long though, because after a few careful seconds Clint shuffles back into his chest and then curls tighter. It’s still weird for both of them. It’s nice too.

“When you looked at that magazine article,” Clint says. “How did it, uh. How did it make you feel?”

“Bad,” Bucky answers automatically. Too blunt. “I just… is that how we look, to other people?”

“Apparently. When we’re not screaming at each other on the street.”

Bucky searches for an answer. “The photos make it look like we’re-”

“Yeah.”

They lay in silence for a few long minutes. Bucky doesn’t know what to say about it and Clint doesn’t seem to either. They’ve been at each others’ throats for so long that it feels weird changing it, but it doesn’t make sense for them to cover _whatever_ this is up with fighting anymore either. Bucky doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do.

Clint shuffles around a second later and Bucky has to shift out the way to avoid getting elbowed in the gut. It’s not like Clint hasn’t elbowed him before. Still, this is something else because Clint’s rolling over so they’re facing each other.

“Please don’t bite me, I’m fragile,” Clint says.

“Wh-” Bucky says, and then he’s cut off by Clint’s mouth against his, soft and a little damp.

It’s just a quick press of lips, nothing more, but when Clint pulls back a second later Bucky follows on instinct.

It feels almost natural to reconnect the kiss, to lean into Clint like he’s going to drown without it. Clint doesn’t seem to have any complaints based on the fingers that hook into his hair and tug him closer, their tongues brushing. Bucky gets lost in it, forgets where they are until Clint gets him a little too close and makes a quiet, pained sound against his mouth.

“You’re hurt,” Bucky says when Clint tries to chase his mouth. “More than usual. Don’t make me responsible for this shit.”

“You’re a little responsible already,” Clint reasons, but he relents. “So. Uh. Good?”

“Good. Fuckin’ weird, though,” Bucky tells him, and Clint laughs.

Then he winces.

Bucky sighs at him.

“Still got the ring, huh,” Clint says.

“Still got the ring,” Bucky agrees.

"We should have a proper wedding so they have to buy us presents," Clint says thoughtfully. "I mean, we're already married, right?"

Bucky's not averse to free stuff - on the contrary, a pile of gifts from all their reasonably wealthy friends sounds _great_ \- but something in him is a little fragile and overprotective of this thing between them. He must make a face because there's that flicker of uncertainty on Clint's, gone again within a second like nothing happened.

He isn't one for letting things lie though, so he cups Clint's bruised face in his hands, leans in close until their foreheads are touching. 

"How about we try a date first," he says. “Without killing each other.”

Clint makes a soft humming noise. "I can try. We kinda did this backwards, huh?"

"Little bit," Bucky agrees, rubs his thumb over the exposed skin of Clint's throat. He doesn’t miss the way Clint’s breath catches. "So?"

"I think I could indulge you," Clint says in that same warmly amused tone he'd used to say things like _fuck off, Barnes,_ and _eat dirt,_ and for some reason it feels right. 

Bucky thinks maybe they never really hated each other at all. 

“What’s the book for?”

“I’m learning new things,” Bucky says, tucks it away and busies himself with helping Clint to his feet. He’s still a little wobbly but he’s terrible with hospitals and Bucky’s going to be hard-pressed to keep him here for much longer, so it’s easier to move him now rather than later.

Why does he know _that_? So much for knowing nothing about the guy. Apparently his brain retains all the things he doesn’t actively think about.

“New things, huh,” Clint says. He doesn’t ask.

“Nothing bad.”

Clint tucks himself in close against Bucky’s body like he needs the warmth to survive - Bucky’s first instinct is still panic and then it dissolves into something a little like pleasure, having someone so close. (Having _Clint_ so close.) They make it to the bench outside the hospital and Clint sits himself down as Bucky stays standing so Tony will see them when he brings the car around.

“Sign language?” and Bucky whips around to see the book in Clint’s hand.

Fucking bastard.

Bucky’s got one trick up his sleeve though, and it feels almost natural as he signs the one thing he’s practiced enough to perform from memory.

_Asshole_ , he signs, and Clint’s face lights up with amusement.

Bucky doesn’t know what Clint signs back but it certainly isn’t polite, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

"Hey," Tony says. "Guess what?"

"You finally got shoe lifts," Clint says. 

"You told Steve that you want a threesome and he said no," Bucky says.

"You told Steve that you want a threesome and he said _yes_."

"The fuck? I'm- wait, do you think he'd actually say yes?"

"No," Clint says at the same time Bucky says, "maybe," and then they smirk at each other. 

"You're distracting me, I don't like it when you're in cahoots," Tony says. "What I was trying to say is that we got an email from the government after a _substantial_ bribe, and Barnes isn't getting deported anytime soon. Hang on, _are_ you in cahoots? For real?"

"With him? Nah," Clint says. "He smells like hairspray."

"Says the guy I found in the trash."

"At least _I_ don't look like a raccoon."

"Raccoon you're married to," Bucky retorts, and Clint tips his head up pointedly, stays there until Bucky gives in to the urge to close the distance and kiss him. It sounds like Tony's blowing a fuse behind them and he can't find it in himself to care. He doesn't care for much right now, other than the idiot smiling against his lips.

Expecting normal romance from either of them would be asking a little too much, he thinks.

It works for them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Winterhawk Bingo Square: Enemies to Lovers

**Author's Note:**

> Winterhawk Bingo Square: Biting, although not in the way you probably expected.


End file.
